The Song of the Rotor-Tiller

Today we harvest broken bits of glass
Fragments of old toys, bit of aluminum
A Sylvania flash cube still intact
From a picture taken decades ago

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What Maid is This

This, this is the blessed woman
From whom God would take the nature of man
Hail, hail maid full of grace
Your answer will determine mankind’s fate

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Paying the Electric Bill to a Tattooed Arm

Through the glass one can see a slender arm
And a shift in the light shows it to be
All splotchy in decaying reds, greens, and blues
Seemingly covered in a tropical blight
The window slides open to a beautiful smile…

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A Rainbow in The Garden

There’s a rainbow blooming in the garden
An array of colors adorning the sides of the path
As petals unfurl and release their sweet perfume
While melodies are swapped at the bird bath

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When the Ambulance Arrived

So there you were with a tube in your arm
And a crossword puzzle and pen in your hands
And a lovely view of a sunlit roof
With windblown debris whipping between the vents

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The BeeGees, Duck Dynasty, and Jesus

Garage-sale-blocked again, the one-lane road 
Hosts cars on both sides, and oxygened-men 
Defiantly aluminum-caning the middle 
In their Quixotic quest for eternal youth

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Assorted Broken Saints

After doing some time in this fallen world
We all are broken, and missing a few of our parts
Having lost some hopes and strengths along the way
But we keep chooglin’ along, making it work

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Palm Sunday without Air-Raid Warnings

Palm Sunday is easy for the rest of us
A procession with palms from the parking lot
Praising God through an asphalt Jerusalem
A Subaru on His right hand, a Dodge on His left

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To Ask to be Exempt Would be Unreasonable

We all have lists of absent friends 
Who were with us one week and Covid the next 
With unfinished stories and little jokes 
We meant to tell each other the next time we met

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Spring, Spring, Spring

Spring, it won’t be long before the hills are covered in green
Spring, I want to roll in all the scents that flowers bring

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We All Dream of Our Own Library Someday

We all dream of our own library someday
Shelf after shelf of finely bound editions
An oak-paneled room with a stone fireplace
And French windows that open to the sea

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Select All Images with Traffic Lights

When the ink on his Gospel had barely dried
Saint Matthew was interrupted by angelic sights
And then to him a Voice from Heaven cried:
“Select all images with traffic lights!”

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I Grew Up In Mayberry

I passed two men who were building a fence
With hands and tools and strength and uncommon sense…

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But is it True? Modern Mayhem & More

Let’s unpack the cliches and hyperbole
The nuclear option and we’ve got this
What we know now we have our options frontline
Off the table Armageddon option

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But a Worm

Who am I to thee draw nigh?
and who am I that thou wouldst die?

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Guilt

What have mine hands wrought?
Light away and darkness brought?
Am I become mad?
Alack, mine hands are red clad?

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A Street Called Parallel

When I was a girl, in small-town America, /
There was a street called Parallel, /
Where we Protestants ran alongside the /
Catholics – an historical microcosm of /
Our ancestral nations.

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Heavenly Hosts

Angels of God, oh glorious host /
Protect those who need you most /
Guide and teach us ever this day /
And keep all of our temptations at bay.

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